


Something Nice

by WrenAndPoppy



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dorian feels guilty about a boner, Feel-good, Fluff, Helpful Cole, M/M, Matchmaker Cole, everyone being cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 14:05:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7466217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrenAndPoppy/pseuds/WrenAndPoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The final fight is over, the big bad defeated.  Dorian should be celebrating with everyone, but he’s too overwhelmed by it all.  He still doesn’t quite believe he deserves something this nice.  But Cole is there to teach him otherwise.</p><p>Primarily Dorian/Iron Bull.  Some awkward Dorian/Cole contact.  </p><p>Contains sexual themes and some sexual language, but no explicit sex.  Also feelings and sass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Nice

In the chill of Skyhold’s night, as the moon overtook the sky, the bar was a cozy furnace of warmth and drink and laughter.  Tankards frothed with ale and wine and whatever was in those barrels that Iron Bull cracked open, and for the first time since the Inquisition began, everyone breathed easy.  The Inquisitor and Sera had long since retreated to the Inquisitor’s quarters – no mystery why – but Varric had roped nearly everyone who was still awake into a game of Wicked Grace.  One game became five, five became more, and the party stretched on into stories and laughter and refilled drinks as the hours of the night ticked peacefully by.

Dorian sat in the shadow of the upper floor of the bar, his legs dangling over the edge where the floor dropped away to make room for the stairs, a tankard of something strong in his hand.  From here, he could see the game unfolding below.  Cullen was scowling, his brow pursed in concentration, his eyes occasionally darting up to glare at the huge pile of coins that sat in front of Josephine.  Varric and Blackwall and Iron Bull were engrossed in a loud conversation about ales, broken by laughter, while Cassandra stared at her hand of cards with open confusion.

Dorian should probably join them.  Tonight was for celebrating, after all.  But somehow, the battle to save the world hadn’t managed to overwhelm him as much as this _party_ had.  The affection, the acceptance, it was all still foreign to him.  He wanted to take it in slowly, appreciate each sip of camaraderie and let it sit against his tongue before swallowing, lest he show too much excitement and break the spell.  

Dorian lifted his drink to his lips, closing his eyes for a moment and letting the taste burn across his tongue.  Whatever Iron Bull was serving from those big black barrels could make a dragon wince, but Maker help him, the stuff was growing on him.

“They love you.”

Dorian nearly spat out his drink.  Cole sat next to him, gently kicking his legs and watching the card game below.  Dorian coughed, wiping a hand over his mouth.

“You _must_ teach me how to do that sometime,” he muttered.  “That charmingly silent creeping-up thing you do.”

“I would be glad to,” Cole replied earnestly.  He kicked his feet again, softly.  “You don’t need to feel alone.  The smiles, the laughter, the firm hands clapping against your back like sunlight on your skin, it’s real, it’s all _real._ Not an act.  They love you.”

For a moment, all Dorian could do was stare at the broad rim of Cole’s hat.  His gaze wandered back to the game below, where Cullen was slamming his cards down on the table with a victorious laugh.  

“ … You really mean that, don’t you?” Dorian murmured.  “I suppose you _have_ to mean it.  It’s what you do.”

“You are not used to it.”  Cole nodded as if in understanding.  “That’s all right.  You will become used to it.  Warmth like a blanket, solid like the ground beneath your feet.  A family that isn’t about blood.”

A swell of something frightfully like emotion welled up in Dorian’s chest.  He scowled into his drink, took a burning gulp of it, and elbowed Cole in the ribs.

“All right, enough of that!  Let’s put that brain-poking of yours to some more entertaining use.  Tell me, who’s going to win the next round of Wicked Grace?”

Cole stared thoughtfully at the game below.  Josephine was leaning over the table to point at one of Cassandra’s cards, gently explaining something to her while Cassandra sighed in defeat.

“ … Not Cassandra,” Cole said at last.

Dorian huffed.  “I don’t need to be a spirit to know that.  Give me something better.”

“She doesn’t mind the losing,” Cole continued, heedless.  “She never wins and she doesn’t understand the rules, but she plays for the playing, and for the people she plays with.  Laughter, drinks, the patience in Josephine’s voice when she tries to explain, the focus in Cullen’s brow, the spark in Varric’s eyes that she won’t admit she’s missed… family that isn’t about blood.”

“Now what have I said about making me feel things?”

“ … You haven’t said anything about that.”

“ … I suppose my first mistake was using sarcasm on a spirit.”  Dorian shifted, his legs swinging in the air above the stairs.  “Tell me who’s going to _win,_ Cole.  If you’re good at this, then between my charm and your unsettling powers, we can fleece the table and split the profits.”

Cole turned his pale gaze back to the table, lowering the brim of his hat until his face was obscured.

“ … Numbers and colors and faces, black and red and golden patterns, familiar, old friend, old puzzle, but it’s not really about the numbers, no, it’s about the faces that _aren’t_ on the cards, knowing a real smile from one that’s made of hopes and lies, seeing the spaces between the gestures, like the breaths between notes in a song, it’s a game just like any other Game… ”  Cole lifted his face to Dorian.  “Josephine is very good at the Game.  She might win.”

“Oh?”  Dorian sipped his drink again.  “And pray tell, who would contest her?”

“Blackwall might.”  Cole turned his eyes back to the table.  “Lying, faking, being something I’m not, fooling everyone, I shouldn’t be this good at it, I shouldn’t, but they knew and they forgave me, they _forgave,_ they see all of me and they see something _good,_ good like I always pretended I was… ”  Cole trailed off.  “ … Maybe this is the only fake part of me left, this part of me that lies about cards.  It’s a warm thought.”

Dorian lowered his drink from his lips.  His eyes were drawn to Blackwall’s bearded smile, the peace that eased the lines of the Warden’s face into something soft.  Dorian had never seen him this relaxed before.  “ … You’re just determined to give me warm fuzzy feelings tonight, aren’t you?” he grunted, shooting Cole a dirty look.

“Varric is very good at the puzzles and the faces.  He might win.”  Cole’s legs kicked.  “His face is better tonight than it is most nights.  Josephine is trying to read him like she reads the notes that Leliana writes, but she can’t see Varric’s cards in his face like she usually can, all she sees is… ”  Cole lifted his gaze to the distant rafters above.  “ … happy.  That’s all he feels right now, good hand or bad hand.  It is frustrating to Josephine, but she isn’t angry.”

“What about our qunari friend?”  Dorian took a sip of his drink.  “He did nearly as well as Josephine the last time I played.”

Cole shook his head.  “The Iron Bull will not win tonight.”

“Oh?  And why not?”

“He isn’t thinking about the game.”  Cole lifted his gaze towards Dorian.  “Drink and battle and victory, crackling like a fire, laughter in his chest, heat in his blood, he doesn’t want his face to be silent right now, he doesn’t want to hide what he feels.  And he doesn’t want to focus on the cards, not when other things tantalize him more.”

Dorian chuckled.  “Oh goodie, gossip.  Tell me, what sweet treat has our hulking friend so distracted?  A redhead kitchen hand?  Some exotic dancer from his homeland?”

“You.”

Dorian’s smile vanished.  Cole was staring at the table, his moving lips just visible beneath the brim of his hat.

“He was wearing that smell again today, the warm spicy one with the clove and the sandalwood, bitter-sweet like he is, bitter-sweet like home is, will he taste like it if I kiss the scent from his neck, will he taste as sharp and hot as his words?”

Dorian felt heat rising to his face.  He turned his gaze guiltily to the card table, to Iron Bull.  The man was resting his chin in his hand, watching the game unfold with a distant smile and unfocused eyes.  Dorian swallowed.

“C-Cole… ”

“Breath catching against my lips, I want it, I _want_ it, it’s soft but it’s _need,_ slick and tingling, like a hunger of the skin, a thirst that cuts to the bone… ”  Cole’s words seemed to cling to the air, whispering around Dorian’s neck as the boy spoke.  “I wonder how he sounds, how he feels, hot and gasping, sweat sticking skin to sheets to skin, fingers digging into my back.  Rocking and rocking like a ship on the churning sea, back and forth, back and forth.  The cresting wave, building, building, power and salt, crashing and _breaking_ against the rocks in plumes of spray, I’ve seen him fight, seen thunder roar from his fingertips, he must feel like a _storm_.”

Dorian forgot to draw breath.  He stared at the movement of Cole’s lips, transfixed.

“ … The Iron Bull wants to taste that storm.”

Dorian tore his gaze away from Cole’s mouth, his face hot.  He lifted his drink to his lips and took a deep, burning gulp, letting the alcohol sear his throat all the way down.

“ … I have upset you.”

Dorian shook his head quickly, wiping off his mouth.  “Goodness no, Cole, you’ve done nothing wrong, it’s – it’s me.  Don’t trouble yourself.”

Cole cocked his head, giving Dorian an assessing look.  “ … It _is_ me.  The body is irrelevant, he’s a child, no, something softer than a child, the pleasure is wrong and I never – ”

Dorian stiffened.  “Cole, don’t – ”

“ … never understood sin until I saw his lips form those words.”

Shame locked Dorian’s limbs in place.  He wanted to look away from Cole’s soft eyes, but he couldn’t.  Cole shook his head slowly.

“You’ve done nothing wrong either.  You haven’t taken advantage of me by hearing me speak.”

Ripping his eyes away from Cole suddenly became easier than staring at him.  Dorian stared into the shadows, hating himself for the need that was growing inside him.  “I… I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t.”

“ … Shouldn’t _feel_.”  Cole shook his head again.  “You can’t help what you feel.  But you tell yourself every day that your feelings are wrong, that they make _you_ wrong.”

“Cole, I… I need to make this clear.”  Dorian stared into his drink, holding it close.  “I have _exclusive_ sexual interest in people who are able to return it.  I don’t… I would never think about you that way.”

Cole nodded.  “But you did, just for a moment, crossed signals, a mistake, and it’s troubling you, _hurting_ you.”

Dorian swallowed.  Cole leaned towards him.

“You should have nice things.”  He pressed each word out slowly, earnestly.  “You don’t think you should have them, but you should.  Not the nice things like silks and jewels, all cold, all dead, but the ones that burn in your heart.  Josephine’s voice.  Cullen’s smile.  The Inquisitor’s hand pulling you to your feet after a fight, grateful to see you alive.  You _deserve_ nice things.”

Dorian swallowed, staring into his drink.  He managed a strained laugh.  “Y-you and those warm fuzzy feelings.  You won’t leave me be, will you?”

“The Iron Bull wants to give you something nice.”  Cole pulled back, resting his hands on his knees.  “You deserve it.  Tell him yes.”

Dorian’s smile was feeling less foreign on his face, bit by bit.  “ … You naughty little matchmaker, you do this a lot, don’t you?”

“Sometimes people want, and other people want, but they don’t _know_ that they want.”  Cole nodded.  “I help.  And then they help each other.”

“And here I was, sweating over my corrupting influence on you.”

“You cannot corrupt me.  I will never let anyone corrupt me.  You should never let that trouble you.”

Dorian let out a long sigh, the tension leaving his shoulders as he stared into the light and laughter below.  “ … Cole, do me a favor?  Never read Iron Bull’s sex fantasies aloud to me again.  It is _damn_ confusing.”

“If you like.”

Wrenching himself to his feet, Dorian huffed out a breath and extended a hand towards Cole.  “All right, you’ve forced my hand.  Let’s go make nice with the others, hm?”

Cole gave Dorian a soft smile before accepting the offered hand.  He let Dorian pull him to his feet.  “Good.  He’s going to be good to you.  He likes you.”

Dorian sniffed.  “You don’t know that I’m going to accept his advances.”

“Yes I do.”

“ … Bloody mind reading spirits.  Come on, let’s go downstairs.”

The stairs and floorboards of the bar were creaky, groaning under each step.  As Dorian and Cole approached the table, six drink-flushed faces looked up at them and smiled.

“Dorian!” Cullen called.  “We thought you’d gone to bed!”

“I’m handsome enough that I can afford to miss one night of beauty sleep.”  Dorian eyed the table.  “Cullen still has his clothes on, so I haven’t missed the real fun yet, I see.”

Cullen scowled and the rest of the table laughed.  Bull slapped his hand against the wood, making the coins jump.

“Have a seat, Vint!  We’ll deal you in!”

“Only if I get to sit on your lap,” Dorian shot back.  He folded his arms across his chest.  “I see you’re out of chairs.”

“For goodness’s sake, Dorian,” Cassandra drawled, her face in her hand, “the bar has plenty of chairs.”

Bull smirked and leaned over the table, gaze locked on Dorian’s.  “If you sit on my lap, you’ll see my cards.  That lovely undisciplined face of yours will give away my hand.”

Dorian smirked.  “That’s true, but I’ll also be _sitting on your lap._ ”

Bull laughed.  He leaned back in his chair.  “That sounds worth a few hands to me!  Sit your ass down.”

Dorian’s smile grew.  He sauntered around the group and slipped between Iron Bull and the table, sprawling across Bull’s firm thighs.  The solid heat of the man under him sent a tingle down his spine.  It had been a while since Dorian had the occasion to sit in someone’s lap, and he didn’t think it had ever been someone quite this large.  He leaned against Iron Bull’s chest and took a look at the man’s cards.

“Oh my.  Your hand isn’t doing anything good there, is it?” he murmured softly, a barely audible breath against the qunari’s neck.

Bull chuckled, his fingers teasing down Dorian’s thigh.  “What _should_ my hand be doing?” he whispered back.

Cullen rolled his eyes and groaned loudly.  “Great.  Now _I_ won’t be able to focus.”

“Oh, don’t be so sour, Commander,” Josephine scolded.  “The Iron Bull has handicapped himself for us.  You should be grateful.”

“I’m sure _he’s_ feeling grateful,” Cassandra grated, giving Dorian a glare.  Dorian waved his fingers at her tauntingly and smiled.

Josephine sighed.  “Perhaps you would all be comforted if I gave myself a similar handicap?”  She smiled at Blackwall.  “Warden, would you be so kind as to sit on my lap for the next hand?”

“A great honor, lady ambassador, but you wouldn’t be able to see your cards past my beard.”

“All the better to handicap me.”

“You make a compelling argument.”

Cole looked around.  “Do I have to use a person as a chair too?”

Varric chuckled and slipped out of his seat.  “Hang in there, kid, we’ll get you a nice wooden one.”

The game started up again, amid laughter and tossed coins and sipped drinks.  It was half Wicked Grace, half musical chairs as people began betting their own laps in place of coin.  Bull’s hand settled on Dorian’s thigh, heavy and warm, staying respectfully in place.  Dorian let his own hand wrap around the man’s wrist, dragging it up higher, feeling calloused fingers brush the inside of his thigh.

“Higher,” he whispered into Bull’s neck.

Bull let out a soft noise, his gaze drifting away from his cards.  His hand followed Dorian’s guidance, sliding up the leather of his pants, squeezing.  “You’re killing my game, Vint,” he murmured back.

“I don’t think you mind.”  Dorian leaned towards Bull’s ear, giving it a nip.  “A little bird told me you’d like to give me something _nice._ ”

Bull let out a low groan, scooped one arm under Dorian’s legs, and stood up so suddenly that his chair clattered to the floor behind him.  Dorian clung to Bull’s neck in alarm, staring down at the suddenly distant floor as Bull’s powerful arms held him up.

“I fold,” Bull announced loudly.  “My hand was shit and this man is a menace.”

Buried somewhere underneath Blackwall’s mass of black hair, Josephine gave Bull a smile and a little wave.  “Have a lovely evening.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes to the ceiling and sighed.  “ _Finally._ ”

“Don’t make too much noise, you crazy kids,” Varric chuckled to his cards.  He threw some coins onto the table.  “The rest of us are trying to play a game here.”

“I promise nothing!” Dorian shot back, waving to the table as Iron Bull’s heavy, thumping footsteps carried him away.  Just before they stepped out into the night, Dorian could see Cole’s hat lift, see the boy give him a smile.

And then Iron Bull’s massive hand was tangling in his hair, and Dorian’s view of the bar was obscured as he was pulled into a kiss.  He moaned softly into it, completely relaxed in Iron Bull’s arms as the qunari carried him across the courtyard.  

No shying away tonight.  He was going to enjoy something nice.


End file.
